Orange Feathers
by FarrierofRohan
Summary: Faramir and Boromir have a younger sister named Miriel. Faramir and she were born a little over a year apart. Faramir's issues with his father are similar to what Miriel has to deal with, especially during the War of the Ring. After many attempts to impress her father, her priorities shift towards bravery and sacrifice when their family is suddenly struck with a devastating loss.


**Chapter 1**

**Loathing Peacocks**

**_TA3002_**

Míriel squinted through her eyelids as maid Gwaeren softly opened the doors to her room. Thinking her lady was asleep, Gwaeren tiptoed to open the curtains to let in the raw, morning rays of sunshine. Through the slits of her eyes, she could tell by her actions that Gwaeren was in a bad mood. The way she hurriedly set out clothes, poured water in the basin, and forcefully completed every action with an aggravated huff, described exactly what kind of mood Gwaeren was in today. Just like the meaning of her name—windy—Gwaeren was a gentle breeze some mornings and blistering cold the next. Her maid had always been that way. It got exceedingly worse when her bedridden, elderly mother passed away a few moons ago. According to Boromir, her mother had been her only family. Her father died years ago from disease, and Gwaeren never married nor had any children. _It is sad_, Míriel thought, _how one woman could be lonely and content and angry all at the same time, at no one in particular except herself_. She always made it a habit to be particularly careful on the bad days to lessen the blow of Gwaeren's constant reminder of lonliness.

"M-m-m-my lady, it is time. You m-must wake, Miss. Remember, the Steward ordered that you be d-dressed and p-p-present for the marriage ceremony." Gwaeren stammered impatiently. On Gwaeren's bitterly cold days, she stuttered when she commanded her to get up. Míriel suspected that it was due to the fact that she couldn't stand ordering anyone around, let alone a lady, but knew that her ladyship wouldn't get out of bed if it didn't take some authoritative persuading.

Míriel flopped onto her back and groaned at the thought of the wedding. How could she have forgotten? She wasn't surprised that she had, though, for she tried to shove the nauseating event of Thalion's wedding to that wench from Ethring in the Ringlo Vale province. His marriage was not one that she liked, but obviously, she had no control over who he married. And to think that she had that kind of power was stupid and selfish. In the end, what could she have done different in the wench's stead? There was no way that the Steward would ever approve _their_ marriage if it ever came to happen. While Thalion was of high status because of his father's executive position in Gondor, a step under the Steward, her father wanted to save her betrothal for something more political, for a chip piece in his game of scheming and ruling of Gondor. He would use his own daughter as a chess piece on his board game of ultimate supreme and marry her off to a ruler from Haradrim if he thought it would gain him political access. Their courtship wasn't secret, but it also wasn't very pronounced. Any common person would see them together and think that they were just very good friends, but those around them most knew that there was something more. As their pairing continued, the topic of marriage began to come up in their conversations. They would walk through the barns together, and often, sit and talk on their special marble bench in the Rose Gardens of Ancient Kings underneath the elm tree. Míriel had wanted to avoid marriage discussions all together because of the Steward's decisions, but Thalion was always eager to start something new. Finally, their last time together was when he told her that she had to make a decision—marry him or never pursue their relationship again. Knowing that their marriage could never happen, she had to choose the other.

Disturbing her out of her trance, Gwaeren interrupted, "M-my lady, you have to get ready. Your father, the Steward of Gondor, is expecting your attendance. I have your gown here, my lady. Is there a certain p-p-preference you have for your hair for such an occasion?" Míriel knew from experience that Gwaeren's comments about hair style was not a question; it was in fact _My lady, I am doing your hair. I know what I'm doing, so shove off and don't tell me anything otherwise. _Again, Míriel knew to be careful on the cold days, on the days when Gwaeren was thinking about her dead mother and family.

With a sigh and a heave, she flipped herself over and slowly crawled out of bed and lumbered to the wash basin.

Míriel, her brother Faramir, and their father arrived at the ceremonial hall early. It was a simple walk from the Hall of Kings, so they decided to take a stroll. The men were dressed in normal ceremonious clothing, but her dress' train dragged annoyingly and her throat felt constricted as the collar crept up and desperately tried to choke her. Faramir couldn't help himself but make fun of the way it looked. It was not her first choice of dress, but the way that the schedule rotation of ceremony dresses worked was entirely up to the Steward and what he wanted. Because she was a woman and a daughter of the Steward, her ceremony wardrobe choices were apparently not up to her, and instead, a higher power's responsibility. Maybe they feared that she would choose something—heaven forbid—comfortable, simple, and normal.

When they arrived at the hall, Míriel casually looked around. The hall was horribly decorated. It was her opinion, and she kept it all to herself, but she truly believed that the bright blue and green peacock feathers were too merry and bold and gay for such an occasion that, in the end, was bound to be unloving and all for naught. She glanced around sharply, narrowed her eyes angrily, and picked out miniscule details accompanying the obnoxious feathers—the light blue-patterned, expensive cloth hung loosely around each pillar (it was too off color from the royal blue of the peacocks, didn't match the scheme of the hall, and was dreadfully draped); the altar was too cluttered with blue flowers, gold candles, greenery, and unorganized to be considered pretty or magnificent (she would have done it much differently, but was this her wedding? No. . .); and the benches for guests to observe were off-centered from where the altar was placed (they were just uneven enough to annoy a perfectionists' eye, such as Míriel's, but to the average eye, it probably looked adequate). Oh, how she would have done a better job had it been her wedding. Oh, she could have honored their houses so much better if she had been the bride and she wou—

"Excuse me, Miss? Could I move past you, please? Thank you." A hustling, balding gentleman commanded hurriedly. Míriel turned, ready to show her distaste for being addressed in such a disrespectful way, when she looked at the man; disheveled, sweat beaded down his red, chubby face making him look terribly ill and fat. He quickly tried to take a few of the peacocks out of the decorations, to minimize the insufferable color, and adjust some of the pillars' blue drapery, and there was no doubt that he was the wedding planner. He looked in such distress; it stopped her from belittling him with her powerful rank and House. She never pulled the "My Father is the Steward" card often, but she felt fowl this morning and she was ready to take her rage out on any instigating party. And yet, she felt bad for the man—the terribly decorated room was probably not his fault, but the bride and Thalion's. From his complexion and anxiety, this was obviously not the way the wedding planner man had organized it originally.

She knew the Wench—_no, the "Bride"—_from childhood, when the Steward used to send for all the representatives from the Provinces to gather in lengthy assemblies during the late summer. If the assembly was to be lengthy with negotiations and trading schedules, then the representatives might bring a family member or two. The Bride's father, Ringlo-Vale's highest leader, would bring her along and then Míriel was forced to play with her and treat her as an equal; the Bride was a petty, pretty girl who couldn't weild a sword or play hide and seek. In fact, every time they would play, the Wench—_B-R-I-D-E—_would call it "find and hide;" this annoyed Míriel in the highest fashion. But the Steward's assemblies ceased when Míriel was about nine years old and the Wench—_Bride!—you know what, I don't give a damn—_quit travelling to the White City. In fact, today might be the first time the Wench has been to Minas Tirith in over a decade. Honestly, she didn't really even remember the Wench's name or that she still existed in Gondor until a couple of months ago when Thalion broke off all relationships with Míriel and moved on to the Wench instead.

No, she wasn't bitter. She wasn't livid. She was angry. She was the one who didn't want to marry, anyway. So therefore, why should she be mad about Thalion finding a bride? Maybe the Wench makes him happier than she ever could. But who is she kidding? She was mad, livid, and bitter; so bitter that she would have to control herself not to stand up during the ceremony and bolt out of the hall, causing a scene. She didn't want to be here, but for Thalion's sake. She would sit and stay and loathe the world with her fuming obedience.


End file.
